chasing serotonin regardless

[redheadgleek]

[emotional-support-pasta]

(btw, to everyone expressing interest in my "prince4prince" arranged marriage hollanov AU, thank you! i've been working on it and fully intend to finish it; i'm just writing slowly. if nothing else, i hope my molasses-like pace can reassure you that i am definitely not using AI.)

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Listening to your playlist for Dawn and re-re-re-reading Dawn made me want to go through my Metric playlist, and see if any of their songs fit with the story as well. I remembered that you titled another one of your fics after a Metric song, so I thought I would pass along my findings for your enjoyment!

“All Comes Crashing” from Formentera

“Moral Compass” from Romanticize the Dive

“Loyal” from Romanticize the Dive

“No Lights on the Horizon” from Art of Doubt

“Days of Oblivion” from Formentera II

Thank you very much for this important piece of playlist scholarship! I do indeed love Metric, and I need to get more familiar with their most recent work. I made your list into a playlist and listened to it while out doing errands, would recommend. The lyric that most struck me in this context was "I'm just someone trying to turn a wall into a door". I am so tickled you did this, thanks again for sharing!

[emotional-support-pasta]

reblogging to the fandom-specific blog; also, while we're on the topic of new-ish metric and heated rivalry, time is a bomb as a hookup-era hollanov song y/n?

[emotional-support-pasta]

A few weeks ago, an anon asked if Shane from Dawn in the Altered World ever finds out about Ilya's magazine. And given the amount of time I spent in that fic's headspace, honestly it would be more surprising if I didn't have a detailed headcanon about how that happens. So here's this. Many thanks to @acesgroupchat for the beta!

.

Year Eight

Ilya is no longer trying to keep the magazine a secret, but most days he doesn't think of it. A single black and white image of Shane Hollander smiling vaguely at the camera is nothing compared to what Ilya gets to see, hear, and touch on a daily basis. When Ilya remembers, it is only to spare a thought for the hollowness of his life before Shane staggered back into it.

All of which is to say, Shane discovers the January 2016 issue of Gourmand by accident. 

It's one of the first times they've managed to fuck on the bed, and Ilya is so transported by the sight of Shane's face, almost overcome and still begging with his eyes for more, that they end up jolting the mattress halfway off the bedframe. Shane takes first shower. Ilya is scrubbing himself down with the last of the wash water when he hears a telltale crinkle of paper, and then Shane says,

“Hey babe? What's this?”

Ilya is so distracted by the things his chest does at being called babe that he doesn't immediately answer.

“Four Bold New Takes on Tiramisu,” Shane reads to himself.

“Ah,” says Ilya, hanging up the towel. “Yes.”

“Why—” Shane starts.

Ilya climbs into bed, tucks the blankets around them. There is no point in trying for cool and casual. That ship has sailed, and mostly Ilya has no regrets. It does mean these moments hit a little harder, though. Shane has seen him undress many times in the trailer but Ilya has rarely felt more naked.

“Open it,” says Ilya.

Shane blinks, confused, but obeys, the cracked spine of the magazine immediately yielding Ilya's secret: Shane and his wrist, rendered in glossy flat monochrome.

“You get one chirp,” Ilya says. “One free chirp. Make it count.”

But when Shane looks up from the page, his eyes are wide, shiny with what might be tears. Ilya gently takes the magazine, deposits it on the floor. He switches out the lights and wraps Shane in his arms.

“What?” says Ilya.

Shane is quiet for a moment. “So when I came down from Montreal,” he says, “I passed through the outskirts of Boston. I went through a few houses out there, looking for supplies.”

“Yes, everyone has done this,” Ilya says, in case Shane feels some residual guilt over what certainly no longer counts as breaking and entry.

“And I wound up with a jersey,” Shane says. There is a pause as Ilya attempts to make sense of this. “It was, uh, it was a Rozanov jersey.”

“What?” says Ilya.

“A fan jersey,” says Shane. “It was white with black letters.”

“And you wore it?” Despite the circumstances, Ilya can feel himself starting to smile.

“A few times,” Shane says. “But then I met up with the survivalists, and, uh. They knew who I was, and they knew who you were, and no way I was gonna be able to explain. I knew they would've been shitty about it. So I kept it in the bottom of my pack. The whole time I was with them, I had to be careful, whenever I opened my backpack around them.”

“Those fucking dipshit losers,” Ilya agrees. “Do you still have it?”

A slight rustling that is Shane shaking his head. “After I, uh, left, I wore it almost every day, over my shirt. Under my coat, in the winter.”

“Oh,” says Ilya. The pieces are starting to slide together. “When that fucker stabbed you—”

“Yeah,” says Shane. “And I could repair my coat a little with the tape, but the jersey was white, so all the blood—”

His voice wavers. Ilya kisses Shane's shoulder, comforting. 

“Wearing it made me feel less crazy, I think,” Shane says. “Less like I'd made you up in my head.”

Ilya considers this. “Well, Shane,” he says. “I am sad for us both. Sad for you, that you had such a fucking horrible time out there, and met only awful shitty people for so long. And sad for me, that I won't get to fuck you in your Rozanov fan jersey.”

Thankfully, Shane snorts. “Asshole. It's not like I had a lot of shirt choices. It was the end of the world.” He's squeezing Ilya's hand tightly.

“But I have to think,” Ilya says, squeezing back, “whatever you found, probably you could have scavenged something that did not have my name across the back in big black letters.”

“Oh, fuck off,” says Shane, and Ilya can hear the smile in his voice. “How long have you kept your magazine photo?”

“Since Year Three,” says Ilya. “Cliff saw, that’s why I think he knows.”

Shane hums.

“I think he knows…babe,” Ilya amends.

“Oh,” says Shane, sounding maybe a little embarrassed, “you noticed that. It kinda just came out.”

It is late autumn; the cold November rain is pounding the trailer roof but this is a sign of the coming winter. Ilya nestles a little closer to Shane, who will not roll away towards the wall. Shane, who is here for the duration.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, yawning. “Is okay, kotik. And anyway, I have it on good authority this is not the end after all.”

[emotional-support-pasta]

hey, does anyone in the Heated Rivalry fandom know about fencing? (I ask both to request help with the details in a little fic I'm writing, and also to gauge how many people will notice if I get it wrong.)

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Dawn in the Altered World - COMPLETE!

52k, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, rated E.

Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road. Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

Link to the fic

It's finished! 🎉 A huge thanks again to my betas, AcesGroupChat, etben, rarefiednight msilverstar, and beagoldfish. This is the longest piece of fic I've written since World Ain't Ready; it was a labor of love and I'm so grateful to everyone who helped me with it, everyone who's been following along, and anyone willing to check it out now that it's been fully posted. <3

[idiopath-fic-smile]

oh, also I made a playlist for this story! it's here.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Dawn in the Altered World - COMPLETE!

52k, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, rated E.

Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road. Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

Link to the fic

It's finished! 🎉 A huge thanks again to my betas, AcesGroupChat, etben, rarefiednight msilverstar, and beagoldfish. This is the longest piece of fic I've written since World Ain't Ready; it was a labor of love and I'm so grateful to everyone who helped me with it, everyone who's been following along, and anyone willing to check it out now that it's been fully posted. <3

[emotional-support-pasta]

for @mischiefseven, the great Tim Horton's vs Dunkin debate. this was fun! also I still taking prompts!

“This is trolling,” says Ilya, dragging a hand down his face. “I am being trolled, you are trolling me.”

Shane shakes his head, stubborn. “Tim Horton’s beats Dunkin, any day of the week.”

“What is this wrong opinion based on?” says Ilya. “When was the last time you had a donut, Shane? 2004?”

“2007,” says Shane, with worryingly little irony. “And it’s not an opinion, it’s fact.”

“Is this required?” asks Ilya. “When I get my Canadian citizenship, will it come with delusions about donuts and a coupon for free Timbits?”

“What’s a Timbit?” says Shane, but a second later he cracks a smile.

"I knew it!" says Ilya. "Who taught you to troll like this?"

Shane is full-on grinning now. "You get one guess, asshole."

[emotional-support-pasta]

@thesingingbadger prompted me with "heatwave" — a great and very topical prompt, thank you!

“They said they can send someone out to look at the AC in three days,” Shane reports grimly.

“Three days?” Ilya groans, lying on the floor in front of the fan, his curls damp with sweat. “What, are they coming on horseback?”

“The tradeoff to a secluded cottage is that it’s secluded,” says Shane. “The company has two guys covering a huge area, it’s not their fault.”

Ilya flops his head to the side to look at Shane. He raises his brows minutely, and then his eyes are raking over Shane’s bare skin. Shane has peeled off his T-shirt and changed into his summer running shorts, which felt like a purely sensible decision about three minutes ago. He can’t look that good; he can feel that his face is flushed from the heat, and the perspiration is trickling down his back. A slow smile is overtaking Ilya’s face anyway.

“Shut up, it’s so hot out,” says Shane.

“It is,” Ilya agrees. “So hot.” He jerks his head as if to say come here.

“It’s a thousand degrees and you want to get even sweatier?” Shane says, disbelieving, as he crosses the room towards Ilya. The hardwood feels warmer than usual underfoot.

“We could fuck in the shower,” says Ilya in a very reasonable tone of voice. Shane considers this, but the thought of standing under the steaming spray makes him frown.

“Under cold water,” Ilya suggests.

“Would that even work?” says Shane.

Ilya smirks, and tugs Shane down to join him on the floor. His mouth finds the pulse point in Shane’s neck.

“We should try,” Ilya says, voice low. “Although you are welcome to keep arguing if you want me to convince you.” He bites, not gently.

Despite the heat, Shane shivers.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 10/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don't need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn't

Summary: The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road. A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case. Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

[emotional-support-pasta]

btw currently taking three-sentence Hollanov (and Hollanova) fic prompts to distract from the horrors!

[idiopath-fic-smile]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 9/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don’t need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn’t Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road.

A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case.

Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 8/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don’t need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn’t

Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road.

A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case.

Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Chapters: 7/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don’t need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn’t Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road.

A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case.

Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Chapters: 6/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don’t need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn't 

Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road.

A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case.

Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

New chapter is up! Here we get the first real inkling of what Shane has been up to for the past seven years.

[emotional-support-pasta]

People the other day were posting about the Hollanov AU possibilities of prince/knight and for the record, that is great and I support it. But if I could quick also make an argument for prince4prince?

Okay, so walk with me: this would take place in a world where political marriages between two men sometimes happen, but it's a pretty recent thing and some people still have hangups about it. 

.

“You wanted to see me,” says Rozanov, “alone?” He’s smirking in a way that makes Shane reasonably sure he’s being mocked, but for once in their very short acquaintance, Shane won’t take the bait.

“Yes,” says Shane, heart pounding. “Close the door behind you.”

It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together before. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, but he does close the door. He takes the chair across from Shane. The way he slumps in his seat is unfortunately attractive, but then, that applies to nearly everything he does.

“How did you escape the rest of your retinue?” asks Rozanov idly.

“I evade them very rarely,” Shane says. “They were not prepared.”

“Mm,” says Rozanov. “I evade mine very often, so I am always prepared.”

There is no point in prolonging this. “I need to tell you why the marriage cannot take place,” says Shane.

“You mean our marriage,” says Rozanov blankly. “The one happening in ten days.”

Shane nods. “There is a provision,” he says. “It’s not used very often but if we both object, we can still get out of it.”

“You agreed before. What has changed?” Rozanov’s tone is unreadable, and Shane cannot make himself look at him.

Shane had known, on some level, that the only way out of this situation would be to explain it to Rozanov, but his resolve had been considerably stronger in the early hours of the morning, following another sleepless night. With Rozanov in the room, Shane’s determination is weakening every second. 

“I’m sick,” Shane tries.

“You seem healthy enough to me,” says Rozanov.

Shane can feel his face start to heat. “Not that kind of sick.”

“What kind, then?” Rozanov presses.

“Does it matter?” says Shane.

“You are the most duty-bound person I have ever met,” Rozanov says. “Your entire life is obligation. Why is this the one charge you refuse?”

This is agony. Shane reminds himself how much worse it would be, for the whole mess to come to light after the wedding. An annulment. Rumors swirling around them, Rozanov sent home in likely disgrace. 

“Look,” says Shane, “you deserve someone who can be with you.” He fights the urge to drag a hand down his face. “Someone who could properly consummate the marriage.”

“And you cannot?” says Rozanov. “What, are you going to try to tell me you aren’t interested in men?”

Shane freezes. Rozanov is more perceptive than he looks. “No,” Shane grits out. “Uh. I am.”

There is a long pause. 

“The problem is the way I’m interested,” says Shane.

“And what way is that?” asks Rozanov.

Shane presses his lips together. 

“What,” says Rozanov, “should I start listing ways?”

“No,” says Shane before he can stop himself. “Fuck you.”

With some men, this would be the start of an international incident. When Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, there is no fury, no outrage. Maybe a glimmer of triumph, although that makes no sense.

“I, uh,” Shane says. “The things I want are—are perverse.”

Again, no anger. Rozanov also does not run screaming from the room. He says only, “Perverse how?”

For obvious reasons, Shane has never needed to tell anyone before, but he does probably owe Rozanov the truth.

“I have heard other men talk,” Shane says unsteadily, “about what they like, when it comes to matters of the flesh.”

Rozanov nods. Shane is standing with his toes over the edge of a precipice. There is nothing left to do but fall. He swallows.

“I have never heard another man say he wants to be the one on his knees,” Shane makes himself say.

Another pause. Shane’s heart is in his throat.

“This is not unusual, in my experience,” says Rozanov.

Shane stares at him. “What?”

“Every time a man has his cock sucked, there must be someone doing the sucking,” Rozanov says. “The act cannot happen without it, no?”

Shane’s mouth is hanging open. He closes it. “I mean, it happens,” says Shane at last. “But a man isn’t supposed to—”

“Enjoy it?” says Rozanov softly. “And you do?”

“I think I would,” says Shane, ruthlessly honest. “Very much.”

“You think you would, but you have never done it?” Rozanov says. He’s almost smiling.

Shane feels absurd all of a sudden. In my experience, Rozanov had said, implying he has committed such acts before, maybe with some frequency, while Shane has done almost nothing. He breathes through his nose and tries not to feel like a child. Shane’s inexperience is not the problem. His perversion is.

It occurs to Shane that he had chosen to share perhaps the mildest of his predilections. Worse, that he had done so because on some level, he still does not want Rozanov to think less of him. Stupid.

“That is not the only thing I want,” says Shane. And he reaches for the worst, most incriminating fantasies he can think of, thoughts that make him burn with shame even when he is alone. And Rozanov—cocky, boastful, outrageous Rozanov—sits and listens. It is absolutely horrible, but after the first few, there is something strangely comforting about admitting these things aloud to another person. He wonders if this is how Catholics feel in confession.

Rozanov does not react with mockery or disgust. Occasionally, he asks a question—so in your mind, when this man holds you down and makes you take it, is he rough with you? Does he hurt you? And Shane answers with the same curious detachment, Maybe but it is less about the pain and more about not being able to stop him, because he knows I want it.

Sometimes there is an odd strain in Rozanov’s voice, but he does not flinch away from any of Shane’s lurid, sinful imaginings. Shane regrets meeting this more considerate side of Rozanov only now, before they are to prevent the wedding from ever happening. 

If Shane is being honest, he loses track of the time, is only reminded of the outside world when footsteps sound in the hallway behind them, from the other side of the door.

“Ah, so they’ve found us,” says Rozanov, with an unfairly devastating smile. “Your people or mine, do you think?”

An awful thought seizes Shane. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he says, cold in the pit of his stomach.

“Of course not.” Rozanov stands, stretches. “Who would believe me?”

The door opens. “Your Highness, where have you been?” An unfamiliar voice. One of Rozanov’s retinue, then.

Shane busies himself with the papers on the table.

“Right here,” Rozanov tells his attendant. “No international incidents today. We were just having a chat.”

“Thank you for the conversation, Highness,” Shane tells Rozanov, holding out his hand to shake. When Rozanov steps close enough to clasp hands, Shane adds in an undertone, “I can draft the papers to void our engagement tonight.”

Rozanov takes Shane’s hand in his own. His palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough with callouses. His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov is known to be a fine athlete, skilled in fencing. So is Shane. There is a reason King David and Queen Yuna had hoped the match might be a happy one. Shane feels a pang of something, that they will likely never have another conversation alone. Still, he has at least freed Rozanov from a life shackled to Shane’s debaucherous soul.

Rozanov squeezes Shane’s hand. “Don’t,” he says.

“What?” says Shane.

“Don’t draft the papers,” says Rozanov, almost casual. “I will not sign them.”

He releases Shane’s hand, turning to go.

“What do you mean?” says Shane dumbly.

Rozanov looks back at Shane and smiles again. There is an edge of something to it that Shane doesn’t know how to define, except that it makes him shiver.

“Our wedding is in ten days,” says Rozanov. He backs out of the door, attendants urging him forwards. “Thank you for the conversation. Very illuminating,” he calls from the hallway.

The door swishes shut.

“What the fuck,” says Shane, with feeling.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Chapters: 5/11 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, inspired by Station Eleven (but you don’t need to read Station Eleven to understand it), implied secondary character death but no specific deaths are ever confirmed, absolutely zero zombies if that is a concern for you, high levels of pining, rated E because this one is a slow burn until it isn't  Summary:

The Boston Raiders are making decent time heading up into Michigan when one of the horses almost breaks an ankle on what’s left of the road.

A highly lethal—and highly contagious—virus has swept across the planet, taking down the power grid, toppling society, and leaving behind only a tiny fraction of the population. For a while, it seems like everything is over. This is not the case.

Or: The world ends. Shane Hollander starts playing for Boston. Yes, in that order.

Chapter Five is here!